They Say I Pretend or Lie
by doctorenterprise
Summary: Patrick Jane's previous reason for existence was his family. When that ended, it was killing Red John. Now that this task has been completed, what does he live for? What does he long for above all else? No set timeline.


**Itso**

Dizem que finjo ou minto  
>Tudo que escrevo. Não.<br>Eu simplesmente sinto  
>Com a imaginação.<br>Não uso o coração.

Tudo o que sonho ou passo,  
>O que me falha ou finda,<br>É como que um terraço  
>Sobre outra coisa ainda.<br>Essa coisa é que é linda.

Por isso escrevo em meio  
>Do que não está de pé,<br>Livre do meu enleio,  
>Sério do que não é.<br>Sentir? Sinta quem lê!

- Fernando Pessoa

Based vaguely on the poem 'Itso' by Fernando Pessoa. Alternatively, 'This'.

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><p>Patrick Jane was a hard man. He was unyielding and cunning, sharp as a tack. He could shake your hand and desecrate your soul at the same time. Look into your face and reveal your best kept secrets in only the time it took for a smirk to form on his face. He could fake a message from a dead grandmother and make it detailed enough that you would believe him even if you knew he was a conman. He was, in a word, analytical.<p>

However, when his touch fell upon Angela Jane, he became a soft man, a warm man. He was the single most perfect husband any woman had worked up the desperation to dream up. His hand fell on a distressed young woman's shoulder and he lied through his teeth about how sorry her father was for tearing the heads off of all her dolls right before her eyes. His hand fell on the shoulder of his gorgeous wife and he fell prey to her sparkling eyes and knew he wanted nothing more out of the world. Nothing at all.

He gaze settled now on the white panel door that was shut teasingly across the room, effectively blocking his line of sight into the adjoining bathroom. He could hear her humming. _Adagio_, an Albinoni classic. Her favourite. His, as well, if only for the simple reason that it poured from deep inside of her and tumbled from her lips like autumn leaves on the wind. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

She grew quiet. He folded back the sheets on her side of the bed, making sure to wedge her pillow quite close to his and sink into position. His arm slipped beneath where her head would come to rest and his body angled to the inside so he could envelop her once she lay down. The simple act of readying himself for her arrival brought a smile to his face. The sound of running water beyond the closed panel door stopped abruptly. Evening routine dictated that she would slip her toothbrush back into the blue flower-printed pottery mug to the left of the sink, right beside his. She would take a sip of water – directly from the tap. She would gather her hair, lean down, and slurp up a mouthful from the running faucet. He didn't know why she did this, could only assume it was an inexplicable quirk he would cherish for the rest of his natural life. He would, too – cherish it. He cherished everything he learned about her.

He heard the tap turn on briefly and slow to a halt once more. The door swung open slowly. She would take her time with him because she knew that the only person on earth who had any sort of sway over Patrick Jane was herself. She knew she was the only one he never tried to maneuver or influence to his own advantage. For that she was grateful, but also thrilled in a girlish way. He was hers and she was, by her own will and volition, his.

Crystal blue eyes danced on the young, smooth face of a professional liar. For tonight, and every other night they slipped into bed together after a long day, he was not a liar, but a lover. A lover and a friend. She made her way toward him, familiar with the dancing eyes upon his kind face. He knew she understood his expression and her face shone all the more for it. The mattress sank and encircled her lovingly like an old friend. She wedged into his arms and he held her for a long, long moment. Breathing in her scent, feeling her heart beat against his chest, listening to her warm breath as it puffed against his neck.

He whispered into her ear, whispered that she was truly the most beautiful creature his eyes would ever see. She pressed a kiss to his neck and smiled, whispered that he was the kindest man she would ever love, the only man. His palm traced down the line of her cotton nightgown and came to rest on her stomach.

He felt the swell beneath his hand, felt it and saw it. Yet he could not allow himself to believe it. This woman, this glorious woman, was giving him a part of herself that could never be ungiven. A child. This very moment, she had but a small roundness to her abdomen. So small he almost wondered if it was there. Three months ago, she had whispered it into his ear as he held her close and warm to his side, drifting into sleep. Three months ago, his life had changed. There was no question about whether or not it was for the better. Of course it was.

He slipped down in their bed and pulled up her gown. Soft yellow cotton panties caught his attention only briefly as he pressed his lips against her belly button. Murmured and I love you to the both of them. When her hands weaved into the unruly curls atop his head, he smiled up at her. She called to him with her eyes. Called him to come back to her face, to her lips, to let her hold him and he hold her.

Back in her arms, the yellow cotton panties were lost in translation; tossed away in a gentle tumble of limps and warm breath to be discovered behind a chair later on. The nightgown was at first pushed up around her chest, the discarded altogether when he lost patience with being obstructed. Gently, quietly, though there was no one to hear, he shed his sleep pants and molded easily back into her arms.

His grip was kind and forgiving, but strong enough to enforce his convictions. If there was a God, he thought fleetingly, this woman was his finest masterpiece. When he slid easily inside of her, no preparation required for a pair as practiced and compatible as this one, he sighed her name.

_Angela_.

There was nothing that quite described the act of making love to the sole reason for your continued existence, to the mother of you child. It was a tornado of emotion. Reverence, uninhibited passion, consideration, lust. It was the gentlest of acts, but the most heart wrenchingly metamorphic experience Patrick Jane had ever known.

She was hot around him, face open and eyes closed. Long lashed brushed against her cheekbones. Stray chestnut waves framed her face on the pillow. Closed eyes fluttered open slowly to reveal sparking emeralds in their sockets. The gemstones spoke to him, told him more and faster.

So he moved within her, faster and only marginally more forcefully. He couldn't bear to hurt her. She was the only important force of gravity in his life. Without her, he was a floating man, a lost man. A lying, unhinged man. In her arms, he was a provider, a husband. A father.

His soft, warm lips met cool skin. They were dry against her throat, and hot, needing to be quenched. He drank her up like a first sip of water after a week in a desert wasteland. Rough, warm hands cupped her breasts; legs muscled and slender wove together below the sheets. Cool air touched their skin, but it went unnoticed. Gentle passions mounted to contained passion. He held her desperately, worrying a single nipple with his thumb. She panted his name softly, rising up into him. They were coming apart at he seams, shaking apart, but moving together at the same time.

"I love you," she breathed as the bed rocked lightly to the tempo of their lovemaking. He bowed his head into the crook of her neck and shoulder. Felt her tighten around him, heard her moan his name, watched her face contort contentedly. Listened and listened as his name poured from her lips as though it were the only word she knew. Buried is face in her hair, held her close, and emptied himself into her. Crumbled on top of her, mindful of the precious bump of her abdomen.

While she breathed raggedly below him, he pulled the crimson bed dressings over them and tucked her to his side. Reluctantly slipped from the familiar warmth between her legs. They had made love slowly and well, and she was tired. She always was. Within the following five minutes of afterglow, she was dozing in his arms and he was left alone to look at her beautiful face. He reached out a hand to touch her face and passed through it.

Patrick Jane opened his eyes to the ceiling above his couch at the CBI Headquarters and sighed a sigh of deepest grief. A memory was only memory. No matter how clear, no matter how strong, it was in the past.

How he hated to leave her inside his head. How he hated to wake up every morning to an empty home. A house, really. He would never know a home again as along as he lived.

The reality of this memory, the vivid picture of it in his mind…he could almost smell the cinnamon and lemon in her hair. Could nearly touch the softness of her skin within the restrictions of his mind. It was not often that he allowed himself to remember the feel of his wife, his angel, in such detail. He knew what it led to. He knew far too well the place it put him in. the difficulty it created in maintaining his composed, yet dedicated demeanor.

Every morning, seeing the sun rise above the horizon after another horrifically lonely night beneath a bloody sad face that depicted his very soul on their bedroom wall…it was too much. And at the same time, not nearly enough. In the back of his mind, he saw Lisbon, Rigsby, Van Pelt, Cho…and felt nothing. Simple appreciation that they had helped him catch and coincidentally cover up the bloody murder of Red John. Now that his wife and daughter had been avenged, there was nothing for him here.

He closed his eyes and witnessed the sparkle in her eyes once again. Just one more moment…and in the same second he pictured her face, he witnessed in his mind's eye the first glimpse of his baby Charlotte.

He stood, strode to Agent Teresa Lisbon's desk, opened the top left drawer, and drew out her gun.

The last experience Patrick Jane had was the cool, metallic taste of the barrel.

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><p>AN: My first fanfiction about The Mentalist. I only recently started watching it, but I have honestly never felt so fascinated by a character on any television show before. It is amazing.

Also, everybody, give feedback - even if it's just clicking 'favourite story'.

Thanks,

Mrs F


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